On a shore in Minnesota a wind begins to blow

This poem came to me this summer as I was in northern Minnesota. A sudden wind came up, one that didn't bring in a storm or anything dramatic, just a more than momentary breeze that brought with it across the water a sense that this big ol' world is a living being that, like the trees, experiences life on a different scale than me.

I've been playing with this poem since the summer, which seems like a long time ago now that the late January cold has settled in.

 

Photo by Patrick Hendry on Unsplash

On a shore in Minnesota a wind begins to blow;

it rises across the water, then moves on
through the woods in no hurry, but also,
without a pause. Impossible to grasp,
even by the branches of the pine that line the shore,
or by waves, which don’t crash or spray diamonds
across the sky. Nothing dramatic.
Just now. On this shore.
Like the aspen leaves that quake will yellow
this autumn, replaced in the spring by fresh green.
Much change happens quietly, and bit by bit.
Erode. Accrete. Erode.
Like that face you see in the mirror has
a few more lines than you remember;
and that heart? A bit more wary.
A bit more aware.

– Steve Peterson